JUNE 23, 2024 – Yesterday evening a little past 10:30, our eight-year-old granddaughter expressed agreement that yes, now the hour was late enough for her to be tired and ready to head upstairs to the Land of Nod. As usual, her mind and energy had been in active mode for 14 hours straight and her doting grandparents had assented to her night-owl status. After all, it’s high summer, and she and we are on vacation.
As she gathered herself for the ascent to bed, I asked, “Illiana, before you head off to sleep . . . what should Grandpa write about tonight? Before I can sleep, I have to post on my blog, but what in the world should I write about?”
“Write about the day,” she said without hesitation.
So I did, describing the arduous chore of pulling vines off shrubs and trees.
But that was yesterday. Today was a fresh new turn of the orb, and here it is late in the evening when I must repeat my daily routine of identifying a subject, hammering out a little piece about it, rounding up a representative image, and posting—or to borrow from the closing line of Robert Frost’s famous poem memorized by several generations of school kids, “But I have a routine to keep/And paragraphs to go before I sleep/And paragraphs to go before I sleep.”
The first thing I did this evening was call up my go-to YouTube recording of Finnish conductor Paavo Järvi directing the NDR Elbephilharmonie Orchestra in a performance of the hour-long “Bruckner 2” (Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No. 2). Granted, the ploy is a stalling tactic to give my thoughts a chance to coalesce around a topic, then work in concert, so to speak, to compose a cogent piece suitable for posting. (Until recently I’d never been a fan of Bruckner, mostly because I was unfamiliar with his lengthy works. Now, out of the curiosity that accompanies older age, I’ve become well acquainted with several of his 11 symphonies. They’re dense but somehow compatible with the pursuit of writing.)
Today marked the last full day of our Connecticut sojourn. Well into daylight but still at an early hour, Beth slipped out of bed, fired up the coffee and assumed her customary seat on the front verandah facing the cove. Missing was her conversation companion, GK, who during his, Jenny and Maia’s stay through yesterday, kept to the same morning routine as Beth. The two would enjoy long, leisurely coffee talk before any of the rest of the household appeared. Today, according to my routine, I joined Beth a half hour after she’d greeted the day, and in observance of the developing pattern of appearance by descending age, the eight-year-old stepped out at exactly eight o’clock.
Together, Beth, Illiana, and I admired the scene before us—the cove with its northern end enshrouded in fog and the humid air around us barely stirring. Enjoying our perch was a precursor of the day’s intended centerpiece activity, if a passive pursuit can be considered “active”: a visit to the Florence Griswold Museum and adjacent gallery of the Lyme Art Association, a mere six miles from our verandah view. The former houses a fine collection of landscapes by members of the Lyme Art Colony—a group of impressionists from New York who during summers starting in 1901 gathered at the home of Florence Griswold. The “colony” became known as the “American Giverny.” Much of the natural beauty of our environs is recognizable among the paintings generated by that remarkable group of artists[1].
As the day unfolded however, our plans were revised in favor of . . . food. Late this morning, the Chester trio appeared for a brunch of Beth’s gourmet-style French toast, butter, and maple syrup, plus a huge bowl of fresh fruit and a generous supply of bacon (in which I didn’t partake). Out on the verandah we ate our fill—as the air grew warmer, more humid, and pregnant with “weather,” though neither storm nor rain materialized.
The conclusion of this repast with a view would have been our window of opportunity to see a fine display of art by some of the finest of American impressionists, but our mid-afternoon culinary visit with our next-door friends and neighbors, Steve and Lin, got moved up by a couple of hours. No one could complain, since time with this fun kind thoughtful and interesting couple is always a favored engagement. By the time we entered their yard, their veritable Garden of Eden, I’d lost all need to visit the art museum.
As is the case with all else that Steve and Lin touch, their culinary delights were straight out of “Better Homes and Gardens.” Yet, as always, it was the lively conversation that carried us through several hours of the hot, humid afternoon. From earlier encounters—last summer and last week—Illiana had already met Steve and Lin, who quickly established a warm and accessible rapport with the spirited young girl. Though the classy pair next door are more than a generation older than Byron and Mylène, over the past five years the two couples have become the closest of friends, and Steve and Lin’s kind and loving embrace of Dio, the newest member of our family, is wonderfully heart-warming.
Once we’d eaten our fill of delectable grilled shrimp and kielbasa and black bean quesadillas, our whole group ventured forth to one of the several gourmet ice cream shops within a 20-minute radius of Lyme. There we splurged on various flavors among the 25 or more selections listed on the board outside the order window of the Salem Valley Farms, a stand-alone establishment tucked away in the countryside 15 minutes away.
A long but fast-moving queue stood outside when we arrived. Each of our crew ordered something different. After surveying the exhaustive alphabetical list of flavors, I chose the very top one: “Almond Joy – Coconut ice-cream with fudge swirls, and almonds.” With our cones and cups—and plenty of napkins—in hand we repaired to a picnic table in a nearby glade. There in the shade we luxuriated in our seven different choices of home-made ice-cream.
Several of us then browsed for a few minutes inside the glade-sited “Red House,” a small cottage-like building that housed a modest gift shop. One section featured paintings by local artists. I examined the works closely and took inventory of my reactions; what I liked about them (a lot) and what I didn’t (little).
Just as an attractive seascape lured me closer, I thought of the irony in the encounter: though we’d skipped the actual art museum and gallery, here I was looking closely at . . . fine art. For me, it seemed, the principal difference between the fine art of “The Red House” and the display at the Florence Griswold was . . . almond joy ice-cream!
Back at the cove, we wound down the afternoon with a game of Sorry! and one of Uno, as the weather continued to struggle with its ambivalence—to rain or not to rain, that was the question. The Chester crew then returned to their side of the river, while Beth, Illiana, and I packed up for tomorrow’s trip home. What a time for the eight-year-old, and what a blessed chance for her to strengthen her ties with family and family friends “Back East.” But she misses her mom and dad, and that’s a good thing too.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Years ago during a noontime break, I strolled three blocks from my downtown Minneapolis office to have a casual look inside the newly opened facility of the MacPhail Music Center. From the entrance, I happened to wander down a hallway that was enlivened with paintings. As I passed one particular work, I did a double-take: I recognized the landscape. I examined it more closely, then read the sidebar. Sure enough, the painting depicted a scene on the Lieutenant River (location of the Florence Griswold Museum) and was the work of a member of the Lyme Art Colony.
